


Cold

by Sorrelpelt95



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, No Horcruxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 05:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30067284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrelpelt95/pseuds/Sorrelpelt95
Summary: Prompt: Harry's always been cold; the cold of too thin blankets in a drafty cupboard, the cold of no touch, the cold of separation due to his fame. (More like infamy, in his own personal opinion.) The first time someone touches him, in a way not meant to cause harm, the burning heat makes him flinch, but he grows used to it over time. He becomes inured to it, recognizing it as relatively safe.Then, he gets hit with Voldemort's Crucio and it burns. It burns in such a way that he aches for his cold again. It burns so much that he ends up cracking, his magic flaring out to save him from his instinctive panic and freezing the entire graveyard, covering it in several inches thick of solid ice.The only thing that saves him? A passing vampire whose touch is only barely warmer than the ice surrounding him, calling gently to his fractured mind and tortured nerves. He doesn't even realize he's made some lovely, if gruesome, ice sculptures out of Voldemort and the death eaters.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Sanguini
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Harry Potter, so don't sue, please and thanks.

Harry's always been cold; the cold of too thin blankets in a drafty cupboard, the cold of no touch, the cold of separation due to his fame. (More like infamy, in his own personal opinion.) The first time someone touches him, in a way _not_ meant to cause harm, the burning heat makes him flinch, but he grows used to it over time. He becomes inured to it, recognizing it as relatively safe. 

Of course, given his often bad luck, and propensity for attracting trouble, it doesn't take long for things to go south. 

After being entered into the Triwizard Tournament, which causes one of the few people whose touch he can handle to shun him, he thinks that maybe touch is overrated, maybe the fleeting warmth isn't worth it when the loss hurts so much more. So he starts flinching away again, avoiding touch, staying in classrooms until the hallways empty, taking meals in the kitchens instead of in the Great Hall, and going immediately into his curtained off bed instead of lingering in the Common room. 

Then again, everyone had been avoiding him already, so the lack of his presence goes unnoticed. 

The first task is a nightmare, dealing with dragon fire which is so much hotter than normal fire that it makes his skin feel like it's bubbling and melting from his bones, and if that isn't bad enough, he has to _dance_ , he has to _willingly touch_ someone, skin to skin, and it sends him retreating to his bed as soon as he can leave without seeming rude. No sense in acting up and making people _concerned_ , of course, as that would just lead to more uncomfortable touches and heat.

After that, the lake is a blessing, the water sliding slick and cool against his skin, like touch but not because the water is soft and gentle, cold; not scraping and rough and trailing fire like the touch from a human. Even hauling his hostage up to the surface isn't so bad, seeing as the skin has cooled to bearable levels thanks to the water.

The final task, the maze, has him mentally cursing the people who thought it a good idea, for the millionth time, to reenact the stupid tournament because he's sweating in his uniform from running and adrenaline and the urge to _find it, find the cup, get it first so no one gets hurt, run, run, RUN_ \- 

And then he _does_ get the cup, grabbing it before Cedric can even think to offer it to him, because he _knows_ this is a trap, _knows_ something will go wrong, can feel it reverberating in his bones like he'd been stuck inside a warning bell as it was wrung. Landing in the graveyard is the only reason he needs to more firmly settle in his belief that he'd done the right thing, because then his scar is _burning burning burning_ and he can tell that Voldemort is coming back, will try, and most likely succeed, in killing him, and the only reason he hasn't collapsed from the sheer amount of adrenaline shaking his frame is because he's suddenly tied up against a headstone, pinned in place with magic. 

Then there's a high, cold voice demanding "Wormtail! Start the ritual, so I may greet our guest _properly_." And he feels sick, heart beating like a hummingbird's in the cage of his ribs and breathing shallow but rapid. He can't even see past the tears of pain blurring his vision, his glasses lost in the landing, but he _knows,_ he knows he's about to be touched, about to suffer the burning, unwelcome heat of another's skin on his own, the second someone starts moving toward him. 

Retreating partially into himself to recover from the unwelcome touch, he doesn't realize what's happening until Voldemort is _there,_ in his face, snake like scales covering a hand that reaches up and up, until _it burns, it burns, IT BURNS_ through his body, searing every nerve ending enough to make him scream. And if that isn't bad enough, he's then forced to stand on his own, shaky as a foal. Before he can straighten properly, the pain doubles, triples, turns so singularly consuming that he doesn't even remember the word used to turn his world into hell.

When he was younger, and the Dursleys still went to church, they'd tell him about Hell, how sinners like him would get sent to burn eternally for their crimes, and he thinks, _this is it, this is Hell, they were right all along,_ but then the pain stops so abruptly that he can almost _feel_ his mind break, just a little, and he gasps to catch his breath, whimpering and curling up into the fetal position when nothing else happens. He doesn't know if it's just the cold night air in wherever he landed, but the ground below him is blessedly cold, numbing the screaming nerves under his skin, and if he weren't so worried that his vulnerable stomach would be immediately attacked upon uncurling, and if his entire body wasn't one big screaming, searing pain, he'd lay flat to try and soak more of the cold in. 

"Child... Harry, focus on my voice, okay? Listen to me... I know you hurt, but you have to come back now, you can't give in."

The voice is soft, sweet, reminding him of a cool breeze in the dead of summer, and he barely reacts except to twitch one leg, though even _that_ burns. He must have done something right, though, because the voice sounds pleased as it croons.

"That's it, child, focus on me... You're safe now. The threat is past, you can relax a bit. Is it alright is I ease your pain a bit?" 

The voice is sweet, soothing, but _no, no, no, don't touch, healing means touch and touch means PAIN and everything already hurts SO MUCH-_ But then the voice is back and just as gentle as before, and he realizes he may have been saying that out loud.

"Shhh, it's alright, Harry. I won't touch you, you're safe. All I want to do is cast a numbing spell on you so you don't hurt as much and you can sit up, maybe move a bit. Is that alright?" 

Harry also realizes, finally, that the voice seems like it's talking to a frightened animal, but he's strangely okay with that because it's accurate, andsomething he says or does must give the voice the go ahead because suddenly, _suddenly,_ the pain is diluted to a low tingle under his skin and he can finally crack open his eyes. Of course, he immediately slams them shut at the sight of _red, red, why're they RED,_ but then other features begin standing out in that one snapshot of the face accompanying the voice and he slowly relaxes enough to recognize he's being crooned to again. 

"-it, that's it, calm. I'm not him, you're safe... Better?" 

When he looks again, focusing on other things beside _red,_ he takes in the healthy but pale skin, _not scales,_ the hair, the nose. It makes him slump in place a bit before forcing his heavy limbs to respond so he can sit up, leaning against a conveniently placed headstone even if he _does_ curl his knees to his chest. 

He watches the man, wary and distrustful despite the help he's already received, because red eyes like that, the colour of blood, aren't natural unless you're an albino, and while the man in front of him is certainly pale enough, his hair is darker and his skin is more of a pale over olive.

"No, I'm not an albino." The man smiles, lopsided, revealing the hint of one fang. "I am, however, a vampire."

Harry maybe blushes a little, realizing he's been speaking without a filter, and he clamps his mouth shut, a faint blush spreading heat across his face and down his neck, but the heat reminds him of where he is, what's been happening, and he curls a little tighter in on himself as he remembers, shuddering at the memory pain.

The man sighs, but not like he's upset with Harry, then sits carefully in front of him and very slowly puts his wand away, showing he isn't a threat. "My name is Sanguini, and as I've said before, I'm a vampire. You're probably used to people watching you by now, so it'll come as no surprise, hopefully, that I, too, have been watching you. Of course, I have only been keeping an eye on you to catch _him,_ as I knew, should I watch you, it would lead me to him. I am only sorry I couldn't act sooner, child." 

Harry just stares, the adrenaline leaving his system making him sleepy and the pain fuzzing his thoughts enough that he doesn't really understand what's being said. The pain has also dulled his reaction time, so he doesn't even notice, at first, when a cool, soft hand cups his cheek, he just leans into it. Then his actions register and he jerks away, looking at Sanguini with wide, awed eyes, until the vampire's skin touches his cheek again, a sad smile on the flawless face. 

"I know... I do not mean to sound creepy, but I've been watching you long enough to realize... If you would allow me, I'd like to try and heal your aversion to touch, at least a little... I hope, as my skin is cool to yours, that it will help, the only question is: will you allow me to try?"

There's a good reason why the hat wanted him in Slytherin, wanted him in the house of the cunning and ambitious. It knew he could read between the lines, knew he could read hidden messages in people, and he uses that skill now. Sanguini wasn't just asking to try and heal him, he was asking Harry to leave, disappear from the wizarding world. There was entirely too much pressure on him to stay, pressure that would keep him from healing, people that would try to get him to be something he wasn't, _couldn't_ be, not anymore. But if he left? If he went away, allowed Sanguini the chance? 

_Death or tu_ _rning if I go, or maybe full blown insanity if I don't._

He narrows his eyes in thought, but really, the choice had been made for him as soon as he realized he could finally feel touch without the constant burn, and the fact that he wouldn't have people bombarding him with ideas about who he was, trying to turn him into those ideas.

So, the only thing he can do is nod, a little helplessly, and take Sanguini's hand in his own, glad for a touch that finally, _finally_ doesn't hurt to bear. He thinks it might be the first choice he's ever made for himself, and when he stands, steadied gently by another cool hand on his shoulder, he thinks that's just fine. 


End file.
